we're low on self-esteem,
dreaming of nightmares,
but nightmares are our dream,
your hopes our affairs,
your fears our anthem,
and our music always louder than your scream,
our troubles more ghastly than a phantom.
painting roses black or red,
our faces more sombre than a killer,
with all our victims shed,
drinking gin with a blue caterpillar.
you see our hearts are coal,
and our hands are gold,
our knives shine brighter than our soul,
avoid our gaze or you'll get real cold,
behind our eyelids are mountains of ice,
and behind our mouths are rivers of blood,
and of this I won't tell you twice,
we'll then get drowned by the flood.
if you manage to sneak a peak at our hearts,
you'll find the maps of hell,
more dramatic than all the arts,
so you wish you'd known me well,
before you'd looked at my devils,
and all these will only worsen,
and no man will sink to the levels,
of the brain of a depressed person.